“I’ll be careful,” promised Lawton, as he went to the door of the stateroom and knocked.
Sawyer was behind the sailcloth curtain that protected the saloon from the wind in bad weather, but he could see everything done from a narrow chink.
The door of the stateroom was flung open, and Paul Clayton stood in the opening, his figure silhouetted against the light that streamed through the porthole behind him.
“Custom officer on board, Mr. Miles,” announced the captain gruffly. “You’ll have to declare any baggage you have. They are particular here in San Juan.”
“I don’t see why,” objected Clayton. “We have come from one American port to another, and have not touched anywhere. It seems strange to me.”
“It’s the regular thing. That’s all I know. I’ll call the custom officer. He’ll come down to see you.”
Paul Clayton turned back into his little cabin, and cast a rather anxious glance at the suit case on a chair at the back.
“Very well!” he said, at last. “I’ll stay right here till he comes.”
Captain Bill Lawton went to the companionway, and, as he ascended, he whispered to the officer from police headquarters:
“There’s your man. I’m going on deck.”